Ever After
by algie888
Summary: Sherlock's downfall is watched by the most unlikely of people. Forever you look, but never observe.


I have a secret. It's not a ridiculous secret like the on told at slumber parties, but a proper secret. One you wouldn't tell anyone. Not for the world.

I have a secret identity.

I know it sounds stupid - small town girl, just moved in from Cheltenham, with nothing below her belt but a meagre degree in English. Not even a Masters. I picked the easiest thing there was, because I never intended to do anything with it. I wanted to work as a groom - horses were one of my only joys in life. There is nothing more beautiful than a horse.

Mam wanted me to better myself. And I did. I moved to London, worked part time for a cafe, part time as a riding teacher in the city stables.

It's very hard to believe that under all that, I still have time to have another life entirely.

You see, I'm a writer. I write stories of the small town I came from, their stories. Nothing bad, mind. I only want nice endings. Good endings. The only kind of ending there should ever be. I write every night at seven, on yellow legal pads with pens stolen from hotel rooms. I would write all my stories, and then send them to a publisher. It wouldn't take long to be accepted. They would all marvel at the simplicity of country life, the only problems being that the new mare wouldn't foal. I'd be an instant success, maybe knock Stephen King off the bestseller lists. 

As a writer, you must notice. Look at every single thing that someone does. Write it down. Wonder why. Give them a fairytale ending. 

The people next door were interesting to write about. The tall one and the short one. Sherlock and John. What those men did was absolutely unacceptable. They did experiments on cadavers, played the violin at ungodly hours, and ran up and down the stairs like the Devil himself was after them. That certainly wouldn't do. No one wanted to read about weirdoes and freaks. So I gave them two pretty girls to marry, and John got to move out into his own house - two men, living alone? Unacceptable. 

But writers notice things about people. Their little problems. The things that make them tick. I watched Sherlock Holmes die. 

John couldn't see it. John was with him too often. It is like with a child - if you see them every day, you would not notice them growing. But I saw him only on occasion. And I noticed. 

The first time I saw that he was dying was when they had returned after a late night - god knows where. I asked them what they had been doing, and John informed me that they had been at a pool. 

That was the first time I saw Sherlock Holmes sad. 

When John looked away, to talk to me, I saw Sherlock Holmes disintegrate before my very eyes. Gone was the proud man who was a detective - self-professed to be cold and unfeeling. Left in its wake was a child. A lost, lonely child who only wanted comfort. If I thought I had been upset before - boyfriend breaking up with me, perhaps - then I was sorely mistaken. The sadness I saw in Sherlock Holmes was enough to break even the most guarded of hearts. 

And then John looked back. 

Thus returned the detective. 

I watched them after that, volunteering to buy shopping just to be able to get a glimpse at them. They never needed much. Milk, jam, the typical necessities. I bought them, returned to their flat, and John invited me for tea. I accepted. 

Sherlock was not the most friendly of people. He was quiet, and when did speak his words were cutting, brash, never kind. I learnt to keep my mouth shut around him. But that did not mean I kept my eyes closed. 

It seemed to me that Sherlock had already died. He wasn't talking, and his eyes only brightened when John entered the room. Not even when he had a case was he as happy as he could be when he was with John. I knew that look in his eyes.

That was the look my father took on when diagnosed with an aneurysm - living only for me, and nothing else. Nothing else mattered anymore. I was never to know how sad he was, how much he wanted to die. But I noticed my father, and I noticed Sherlock Holmes, too. 

I kept watching, and he didn't know. I stood outside, leaning on the doorframe. He never saw me. Or maybe he did, but said nothing. Sherlock was always silent when John wasn't there.

Always brooding. Quicker to temper, faster to the experiments. I was scared of him at this time, but only just. 

That was the first time I ever saw Sherlock Holmes cry. 

It was silent for a while, and all I ever heard was him gasp for breath. In, out. In, out. He didn't cry like other people. Normal people. I should know - I watch. Normal people either hold back their tears, sniffling and attempting to look calm, or break down into a red mess, their nose running and tears rolling down in fat drops down their face. 

Sherlock simply looks drawn when crying, gaunt, haggard. When the first tear comes, his eyes widen. Like he never knew how to cry. Like he never knew he could. After the first shy teardrop, the rest start to fall. But Sherlock's expression never changes. He still looks bored, still looks aloof. Except he has big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks like runaway trains. 

I left him quickly, and penned a new chapter. Sherlock's wife is pregnant, twins are on the way. 

Then all the papers printed stories about Sherlock. The funny hat man. The stranger with the long coat. Case after case after case. He found children, solved puzzles, romped about London as though it were his playground. And I recorded it all. 

Just when I thought Sherlock was going to make it, and the sadness would stop, he died. Just like that. 

Well, not really. The media had been blasting a bit, going on, and on about how he was a fake. I never thought it would get to him, really. Proud man, he was. I doubted he would even know what they thought. But he died over it. Jumping off the top of a morgue. Proof that bullying sticks with you from the schoolyard. 

I think I should send my book in now. How rich I will be, how happy. I'll make millions from the book, and if they like the style, I can write more and more. I get my inspiration from everywhere, if only I observe.


End file.
